Page 32

RUBY

By the time I get home, I’m tired, hungry, and one minor inconvenience away from becoming unpleasant company.

The day wasn’t bad. Just long. Three appointments, one consultation that ran forty minutes over because the client changed her mind about placement four separate times, and a walk-in who wanted something small but somehow required an entire philosophical discussion before committing to it.

All I want is food, a shower, and an hour with the sketch spread across my kitchen table before my brain gives up completely.

I heat leftover pasta, change into leggings and an old black tank, and settle at the table with my pencil case open beside me. The sketch is a botanical piece I’ve been working on for a client who wants foxglove and fern wrapping around an old scar. The placement is tricky enough that I need to think through every curve before I finalize it.

I’m halfway through adjusting the angle of one stem when music comes through the wall. It isn’t loud yet, just a guitar line repeating twice before stopping and starting again from the beginning.

I close my eyes for a second, then go back to the sketch and tell myself I can work through it. For almost five minutes, I do.

Then the volume starts climbing.

I tap the eraser end of my pencil against the table and wait, hoping he’ll catch himself. Another chord comes through louder than the last, and that’s enough.

I get up, cross the room, and pound the flat of my hand against the shared wall. The music stops immediately, so I return to the table and pick up my pencil.

A minute later, it starts again, quieter this time.

Fine. That I can live with.

I settle back into the sketch and work for another fifteen minutes before the sound creeps up again so gradually I almost don’t notice until the bass is vibrating faintly through the wall.

I put my pencil down and stare at the wall for a second before deciding I’m done trying to communicate through it.

“Unbelievable.”

I shove my feet into boots, head outside, and cross the few steps to Zander’s front door. The music is even louder from here, which only makes me more annoyed as I pound my fist against the wood.

A few seconds later, the music cuts off.

Zander opens the door barefoot, wearing jeans and no shirt, his hair shoved back from his forehead like he’s been running his hands through it. He takes one look at me standing on his porch and leans against the doorframe.

“Problem?”

I point toward his half of the duplex. “I’m trying to work.”

“I lowered it.”

“You lowered it and then slowly turned it back up like I wouldn’t notice.”

“That sounds paranoid.”

“That sounds accurate.”

Zander stays in the doorway, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who’s been rattling my walls for the last half hour. “You know, a regular knock probably would’ve worked.”

“I tried the wall first.”

“And that wasn’t satisfying enough?”

“You turned the music back up.”

His smile starts to spread, and I know exactly what that means. He’s enjoying this far too much.

“You enjoy this,” I say.